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“She kicked me out of the studio.”

Petra hooked the barstool beside her with her foot and pulled it out. “Have a seat. What happened?”

As I explained, Petra frowned and fidgeted with her gold necklace. “I think this might have something to do with me. I've been raving to Ms. Kelly about your facility with modern.”

“You have?” I felt too shy to look at her. I knew I felt a deep connection with Petra's movement style, but I had no idea whether or not it showed. As far as I could tell, she praised everyone equally.

“Oh, yes, Natalie. You're a natural. I try not to play favorites in class, but under the circumstances, it's only fair to tell you. You're very talented.”

Ms. Kelly's insults and Petra's compliments tumbled in my head. Criticism was familiar, but I didn't know how to handle flattery. It seemed safest to let it slide off me without taking it to heart.

“You probably know she wasn't too happy about my setting a modern piece in the first place. Maybe she feels that you've transferred your loyalty.”

I heard Ms. Kelly's words in my head:
You act as though the movement is beneath you.
“I just don't like her style of jazz anymore. It makes me feel sort of like a machine, or an object. A sex object, I guess.”

I wasn't sure Petra would know what I meant, but she nodded. A couple of men in shorts and baseball caps entered the café and rubber-necked at Petra. She didn't seem to notice them. “That style of jazz started in the showgirl industry in Las Vegas and L.A. It's all about pleasing customers. Artistic expression hardly enters into it. Frankly, I'm surprised she hasn't phased it out by now.”

I slouched on the stool, chin propped in my hand. I was thinking what a relief it would be to quit dance: I could scoop ice cream and ride my bike. This was the last week of the intensive. Maybe I should just drop out.

Petra touched my arm. “I'm thrilled with your work in my piece, Natalie. I really hope that you'll keep coming to my ballet class and to rehearsal for the rest of the week.”

An iced latte might perk me up. The men who had ogled Petra were waiting for their drinks. Mustached and leathery-skinned, they tried to catch my eye. I ordered, then pretended to be lost in thought.

“You from around here?” one of them said.

I couldn't ignore a direct question. I nodded.

“We're just visiting from the States.”

You don't say.

“You a ballet dancer?” the other one said.

That made my head turn. “How did you know?” For a second I thought maybe they recognized Petra.

The ham-fisted tourist reached over and patted the bun of hair at the back of my head. I ducked and twisted away from him, protecting my head and neck with both hands.

“How about introducing us to your friend?” the other one said.

Adrenaline flooded my veins and my face felt hot. I was on the verge of telling them to fuck off when the barista rolled her eyes in sympathy and passed me my drink. She had made mine first. “Thank you so much.”

“Anytime.”

I plunked too much money on the counter and didn't wait for change.

It took me a few cool sips to recover. That jerk had some nerve patting my head. Petra agreed. The men passed us on their way outside to the smoking area. We pretended they didn't exist.

When I got home, Lisa called. She urged me to stay in the show. “It may be our last chance to perform together!” she said. “Besides, you love Petra's piece.”

Mom overheard me talking to Lisa and got pretty worked up. “Who does that woman think she is? She has no right to expel you from a single
class
, let alone threaten to cut you out of a piece in the show. I should get your father to call her up and remind her of how much money he's poured into her school over the years. Of all the nerve!”

Mom gets fired up about injustice. It makes her want to fight back. But my fighting spirit is broken, at least where Ms. Kelly is concerned. So tomorrow I'm sleeping in.

Tuesday, July 20th

This morning the phone rang as I was shuffling into the kitchen, barely awake. Mom was taking a shower. I thought about letting the machine pick up, but habit won. I answered.

“Natalie, is that you? It's Ms. Kelly from Dance-Is.”

My system jolted into high alert. “This is Natalie.”

“I'm sorry for losing my patience yesterday. Of course I want you in the jazz piece. I just want to see a bit of the old Nat—the old fire. Deal?”

I held my breath and looked at the calendar above the phone. Four days to go.

“Okay?” I detected desperation in her voice.

“I talked to Petra,” I said.

“Yes? And?”

“And I'm going to keep working with her.”

“That's great.” She paused. “But we need you in the jazz piece too. Forget what I said yesterday.”

My stomach swirled and my knees trembled. I planted my hand on the kitchen counter as a word sliced across my mind. “No. I'll do Petra's class and her rehearsal, but that's it.”

When I hung up, my head swam. It reminded me of the caffeine rush after a latte.

“Who was that?” Mom walked into the kitchen in her bathrobe.

“You can't fire me, I quit!”

Mom toweled her hair, looking puzzled.

Wednesday, July 21st

I'm lying on my bed in shorts and a tank top with the window open. The air smells the way a glass of water tastes when you're really thirsty. A slight breeze tickles my bare arms and legs. My quilt is bunched up to one side. I'm waiting to see how much cooler it has to get before it's more comfortable to pull the covers over me than to lie here without them. The cordless phone rests in my palm and I keep twirling it. I can't decide whether or not to call Sasha.

Things between us aren't as bad as they were that day in the change room when she refused to speak in my presence, let alone
to
me. We say hi to each other. She doesn't seem very happy, though. The family obviously wasn't getting along that well before Kevin's accident, and now tensions must run that much higher. Aside from the drunk driving, Kevin wasn't even supposed to be living there this summer. He had planned to be up north making money so he could move out in the fall. I remember Sasha telling me how much she was looking forward to that. It's pretty tight quarters in their town house, and I think she and Kevin fight a lot.

He was so mellow when we rode our bikes together. He wasn't even smoking or chewing anything. When we watched the sunset, I wanted him to hold me. Other memories—the lake memories—make my heart race, whether from excitement or fear, I can't tell. Maybe both. Maybe I
am
“old enough.” I've had my period for a whole year. That means I'm biologically a woman, right?

God, what am I saying? See, this is why I can't phone Sasha's house. I don't know what I might get myself into if Kevin answers. It's much too scary. If we're going to make up, it will have to be at the studio.

Thursday, July 22nd

Tonight we went to the closing softball game at Paige's summer camp. Mom's friend Marine came along. When Paige invited her to watch a game that day at the library, I didn't expect her to take it seriously. She must be pretty hard up for entertainment. On the other hand, she obviously loves the sport. Every time anyone on Paige's team hit the ball, caught it, or advanced to the next base, Marine led the cheers. Paige looked great in her blue and white costume—I mean, uniform. When her team won, we jumped to our feet, waved our arms, and yelled.

In a diner after the game, Paige and I claimed one side of the booth, Mom and Marine the other. Kids versus grown-ups, the way we used to sit when Dad and Mom were married. Now, though, I don't seem to fit on either side of the table.

Paige ordered a veggie-burger platter. While I was picking at my green salad, I stared at her fries. Their edges were jagged as though cut with pinking shears, and I wanted to feel the hot, greasy ridges on my tongue, to taste the pulpy potato inside. Puberty hasn't struck Paige yet. Her skin remains pimple-free, her body unbloated.

For dessert, she ordered a banana split. It came with four spoons so that we could all share it. Maybe I shouldn't have cared, since I'm not performing in the jazz number this weekend, but I kept visualizing myself in that scarlet unitard. I imagined the ice cream particles traveling directly to my chunky calves and saddlebag thighs and taking up permanent residence. Mom didn't help. She said, “Dig in!” like a crazed archaeologist and thrust a spoon at me.

To distract myself, I asked Marine about her name. She lit up as if that was her favorite question.

“My parents named me Maureen, but I changed it because I like the sea and the color blue.” Check: she was wearing a turquoise blouse with a white collar, a white breast pocket, and large white buttons. Her blunt haircut and wing-shaped glasses echoed the angular patterns on her clothes. I had to admit, the lady had style.

“Your blouse is funky,” I said.

Marine beamed. Mom looked over, a spoonful of ice cream hovering in front of her mouth, then glanced away, as if she didn't want to jinx the moment. I realized that I could avoid eating my portion of the sundae by taking an interest in Marine.

“Did you make it yourself?”

It turns out that Marine makes and sells clothes, and she's also a painter. She teaches art at an alternative school, where they don't give grades. She encourages her students to express themselves and doesn't evaluate or judge. Now that I'm working with Petra, Marine's ideas don't sound so dumb.

Marine swallowed a spoonful of ice cream. “This banana split is
bliss.
”

I thumped my water glass on the table and glared at Mom.

“Sorry, Nat.”

Marine darted her eyes back and forth from me to Mom. “Did I say something wrong?”

“It's okay,” Mom said. “It's just—we avoid that word.”

Marine set down her spoon and looked at the sundae. “Banana split?”

“No.”

“Oh, bl—the other
b
word?”

“That's the one. I'll explain later.”

I glared at Mom again. I didn't want her talking about me behind my back. Dad's selfish pursuit of “bliss” didn't deserve any more air time, either.

“No need to explain,” Marine said. “From now on, I banish that word from my vocabulary. Poof! Gone. Didn't need it anyway.” Her tone was so reassuring that I relaxed and lounged against the booth.

Friday, July 23rd

Almost time for dress rehearsal. Ms. Kelly's going to find out that I'm not half, but
twice
the dancer I used to be. Of course, Petra's piece will probably look messy and unfinished to her. There's not much unison, we work in turned-in positions, the lines of our arms and legs are often soft, not sharp—we actually
try
to look like spaghetti at one point, an image Ms. Kelly only ever uses as an insult. Also, we're performing in wide-legged pants. She'll sniff and ask us if we're supposed to be at a pajama party. But I don't care. I bet Mom will like it.

Saturday, July 24th

The good, the bad, the ugly.

Backstage (that is, in the high school locker room) before the show, all the other senior girls were pulling on their red unitards for the jazz piece. The modern piece was in the second half, so I kept my sweats on. I was taking time with my makeup and trying hard not to feel left out. I had never missed out on a piece before. Lisa was keeping me company, though she had pulled a hamstring and was a little preoccupied. I offered her some tiger balm, and the smells of menthol and camphor spread as she rubbed it into her leg.

A few lockers away, Sasha was talking quietly to Jamie, with her back to me. Jamie kept darting glances at me.

“Pee-ew, smells like moth balls in here,” Sasha said over her shoulder.

I concentrated on applying eyeliner.In the mirror, I saw Sasha turn around.

“I think Ms. Kelly realizes that some people just shouldn't wear unitards. They're not flattering to everyone,” she said. “It's so easy to put on five or ten pounds, but unitards don't let you get away with anything. You're so lucky you don't have to wear one of these, Natalie.”

I gave her a fake smile. How come I never noticed how catty she is? I used to play along, of course. I hate to think of how many times we would phone each other up and say, “Did you see what so-and-so was wearing today? Doesn't she know that people with olive skin can't wear pink? And how about that lipstick? Talk about fire-engine red. It totally clashed with her sweater!”

I was still searching for a comeback when Lisa spoke up. “Having us all wear identical unitards is supposed to create a group identity. From a design perspective, it's supposed to unite us, not divide us.”